


Face to Face

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Double Penetration, M/M, Romance, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After <i>Legacy</i>, Sam shows Alan the Grid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face to Face

"Admit it," Sam says, mouth twisted in a smile Alan can only describe as smug. "You thought I was nuts."

"I thought you might be under a lot of stress," Alan hedges, keeping his tone noncommittal. His brain isn't really focused on Sam's words, though. He's a little distracted by the impossible sight surrounding him—a world of perfect towers, and light, and smooth, endless blue. "Sam, this is incredible."

"I knew you'd like it," Sam says. "I'd have brought you sooner, but there was a lot of work to do."

"After Reintegration," Alan interprets. Just because he couldn't quite believe the story Sam told him doesn't mean he wasn't listening to every word.

"Yeah."

Alan glances down now, away from the overwhelming sight of the city ahead, and stares at the oddly lit ensemble he finds himself wearing. It looks a lot like his usual suit. Dark sleeves, pale shirt, perfectly pressed pants—but a surreal blue glow emanates from inside his cuffs and, he realizes a moment later, from the thin stripes lining his tie. His glasses feel strange on his face, and Alan takes them off—blinks in surprise at the thick frames that glow with circuiting panels of matching blue.

He blinks in surprise again when he realizes the world looks just as sharp and clear now as it did before he took the glasses off.

"Oh, yeah," says Sam, plucking them out of Alan's hands and tossing them aside. "You won't need those down here. There's no such thing as bifocals on the Grid."

"I do _not_ wear bifocals," Alan grumbles.

"You keep telling yourself that," Sam teases warmly, straightening his own collar. He's wearing what looks like a seamless approximation of his favorite leather jacket. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Tron City is even more beautiful up close, and Alan keeps nearly tripping over things as he finds his eyes drawn constantly upwards. Crisp, delicate lines of light brighten the contours of every building. Shadows fade, overwhelmed by the powerful gleam of circuits and conduits on every surface.

"This is beautiful," Alan says, glancing down just in time to avoid tripping over an abrupt, rounded curb. "How does it all…?" He trails off, unsure how to put his question into words.

"I'm still studying it," Sam says. "Human form into digital space. It shouldn't be possible. Not like this. But Dad figured it out."

"He always did take the word 'impossible' as a personal affront."

"Here," Sam says suddenly, stopping Alan short with a hand on his arm. They're standing at a tall, arched entry portal. The space beyond is vast, and bright as the world outside. As Sam leads the way through, Alan sees that there are dozens of sleek elevator tubes running along opposite walls, humanoid computer programs navigating efficiently across a brightly paneled floor.

"What is this place?" Alan asks, turning in a circle just to take it all in.

"A central information hub," says Sam. "This is where programs receive upgrades, information and new protocols. It's sort of a command center for this sector of the city."

"And we're here because…?"

"I told you. I need to introduce you to someone."

Then Sam's eyes dart away, scanning the busy crowd of programs in search of something (someone) specific.

Alan doesn't mean to stare. It feels like taking advantage, somehow, to watch so closely while Sam's focus is elsewhere. It feels like a liberty he shouldn't be taking.

But he has few enough opportunities in the world outside. He can afford to indulge for a moment in here, when Sam is too distracted to catch him out.

Alan knows the second Sam finds whatever he's looking for. It's impossible to miss the way Sam's face lights up in an instantaneous grin, eyes flashing bright and cheeks creasing with the force of his smile. The sight makes Alan's breath catch guiltily—leaves his chest feeling too tight with some emotion he refuses to name—and he belatedly turns to follow Sam's gaze across the room.

A helmeted program is approaching them. Alan thinks the material covering the program's face might be transparent, but it's impossible to tell with so much light reflecting across the surface. His body, sleek and dangerous, is covered in a tight dark material, protected by strange armor. Small panels of light shine symmetrical on his chest and limbs.

A configuration of four blue-white squares at the base of the program's throat catch Alan's eye and make him think of the letter T.

As the program approaches, the helmet retracts in a cascade of shifting pixels, and Alan gasps at the face that appears beneath.

"Alan," says Sam, smile somehow managing to spread wider on his face. "This is Tron. I think you're already acquainted."

Alan stares and doesn't know how to process the sight of his own face—minus about fifteen years—staring at him in something a little too close to awe.

"Alan-One," Tron says, averting his eyes towards the floor. "It's an honor." The voice is surreal. It's like listening to himself on someone else's answering machine.

Alan blinks and struggles to get it together enough to respond.

"Thank you," he finally manages. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, I just… wasn't really expecting this." He considers for a moment, and adds, "It's good to meet you in person."

Sam, who has somehow migrated to Tron's side in the span of this short, stilted conversation, nudges Tron with an elbow. Tron must take it as some sort of cue, because he raises his eyes again, and while his expression still holds the disconcerting intensity of awe, there's warmth and a smile there, too.

"Would you like to see more of the city?" Tron asks, gesturing towards the door Sam and Alan just came through.

"I'd love to," says Alan.

He takes a step in the indicated direction, and doesn't know what to make of it when Tron sets his hand at the small of Sam's back as they move towards the exit.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The tour is breathtaking. The Grid is like nothing Alan has ever seen, and Sam's excitement—his eagerness to show Alan everything—is a palpable force driving them from sector to sector.

This world contains a whole society. Structured and precise. The towers and domiciles are striking enough, but it's the individual programs that get under Alan's skin and leave him gaping. They don't just _look_ like people. They have distinct personalities—feelings and expressions and an intensity of spirit that leaves Alan stunned.

He can see now how Kevin could have become so obsessed with this world.

Tron is never far from Sam's side. Alan watches them together and marvels at the easy camaraderie he can sense between them. Nothing about their interactions acknowledges the distinction between User and program. There's no artificial distance between them. There's just efficiency and affection, and a closeness that almost makes Alan feel left out.

But for all that Tron never leaves Sam's side, Sam never lets Alan stray far either. He's always right at Alan's elbow, pointing at some particularly bright light in the distance, some line of power bisecting a structure down the block, some other marvel of the Grid.

They reach an elegant entryway, one that's even busier than most of the intricate portals they've passed so far. The door stretches high in a tapered arch, edges delicately detailed and glowing where subtle strands of light weave through the surface.

"In here," Sam says, nodding towards the door and leading the way off the street and into a tall, narrow antechamber. "Time for a break and a drink."

As they move forward, the room becomes more of a hallway, and the floor slants upwards as the corridor angles abruptly left. There are still numerous programs milling in both directions, maneuvering along what Alan realizes is a smoothly climbing spiral closed in by sleek walls. Wordless music rises as he follows Sam up the incline, so gradually Alan doesn't realize what he's hearing until the rhythm has settled beneath his skin.

"What is this place?" Alan asks just as they reach an open door at the end of the corridor. His eyes widen at the sight beyond: uneven flashes of light, dancing bodies, a constantly moving crowd filling every crevice and corner.

"Welcome to the Nexus," Sam says, grinning at Alan's stunned reaction. "I modeled it after one of my favorite clubs. Parts of it, anyway. The rest I made up as I went." The music should be making it difficult to hear, Alan thinks, but he has no trouble making out Sam's voice and words.

"Come on," Sam continues, when Alan doesn't respond immediately. "Let me show you the real reason we're stopping here. Then I'll get us something to drink."

He directs Alan through the crowd, and for a moment there's no sign of Tron. Sam's hand on Alan's elbow is warm, firm with purpose as he guides Alan towards a wide reflective wall at the far side of the room. They pass a bar on the way, an astonishing array of liquids glowing behind a couple of programs that dart smoothly back and forth mixing drinks.

"Is it always this crowded?" Alan asks.

"Usually it's worse," Sam says with a smirk.

Then they're at the far wall, and despite the reflective surface standing like a barrier ahead of them, Sam escorts him forward—right through the wall, which feels like nothing so much as static electricity along his skin—and Alan's breath catches in his throat.

He thought the city looked beautiful from the ground. The sight did nothing to prepare him for this.

"My god, Sam," Alan breathes, moving forward without urging until he's standing at a chest-high railing that encloses the wide balcony they're standing on.

"Thought you'd like that," Sam says, stepping into place beside him and leaning his elbows on the railing, resting his chin on his arms.

They stand there in silence for a long moment. Alan doesn't have words that come close to describing to what the bright, sprawling cityscape is doing to him.

"You made this?" Alan asks finally. His voice feels thick with amazement.

"Dad made it," Sam says softly. "I just picked up the pieces."

Alan's not sure how he can respond to that. He doesn't for a second believe Sam did nothing but clean up the mess Reintegration left of the system. But somehow calling him out—calling direct attention to how obvious it is that Sam has put his own heart and soul into this place—seems impolite.

"It's gorgeous," he finally says.

"Thanks," Sam says, and his smile turns to something softer.

They spend another moment like that. Quiet. Just looking out at view. Finally Sam nudges Alan's arm and says, "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Alan doesn't turn to watch him go. He takes another moment to simply absorb the scenery.

When he does turn, he finds his view inside the club unimpeded by the transparent surface of the intangible wall. The noise is muted somewhat, but the scene plays out before him clear as daylight. Even more programs are dancing now. Dozens of others hover along the periphery of the dance floor or lean against the bar, sipping at glowing cocktails and conversing amongst themselves.

His eyes find Sam quickly, without conscious intent, and then Tron a moment later standing close at Sam's side. Murmuring something in Sam's ear.

Whatever he says makes Sam smile. Then Sam raises a hand. Sets it on Tron's chest in a gesture Alan isn't sure how to read and, then—

Oh god.

Then Sam leans in and kisses Tron, and Alan's jaw drops.

The kiss is brief. Something so casual and intimate that Alan is left with no doubts about what he's witnessing. The easy affection between Sam and the security program clicks suddenly into unmistakable focus in Alan's mind, and his stomach drops straight through the floor.

He feels like a jealous teenager. He feels ridiculous. And knowing he's out of line does nothing to lessen the unpleasant flutter of sensation in his stomach.

It doesn't help that Tron is wearing his face—his face, only a lifetime younger, without all the years that have worn across Alan's features—but still. His face just the same. It makes Alan's face flush even as ugly jealousy burrows beneath his ribs.

The kiss ends, and Sam moves away through the crowd. Alan watches his retreating back for a moment, then his gaze returns to Tron.

Tron's eyes are locked on Alan across the broad distance separating them.

Alan can't read the look in the program's eyes. His pulse kicks up a notch when Tron starts maneuvering fluidly through the throng, straight towards the balcony and Alan.

"Sam's assistance was requested," Tron says when he reaches Alan's side. "He'll return shortly."

Alan's pretty sure he should at least grunt in response here, but he's a little too floored to manage even that. Tron's expression shifts to cautious concern, and he cocks his head consideringly to one side.

"Are you all right?" Tron asks.

"I beg your pardon?" Alan stalls, relieved at least that he managed to find his voice.

Tron opens his mouth, probably on the verge of repeating the question, but the words freeze unspoken on his lips and his eyes go fractionally wider.

"You didn't know," Tron realizes aloud.

Alan's pretty sure he never wants to have this conversation. Unfortunately, he's got no idea how to derail it without giving himself away completely. He's got secrets to keep, and there's sharp curiosity flashing in Tron's eyes. If Alan's not careful, his security program might just intuit everything he's spent years carefully burying.

Alan coughs. Takes a deep breath. He tries to quiet his racing pulse by force of will and is only marginally successful.

"Sam never told me you were together," Alan says carefully. As blankly as he can.

"I'm sorry," Tron says, watching him intently. "I didn't realize. I'm sure Sam never intended to make you uncomfortable."

Alan's breath gusts out of him in a pained laugh, dry and rough, and he shakes his head.

"Of course not," he lies. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Tron says. There's a probing glint in his eyes. "You look…" He trails off, and the glint turns to something a little too knowing.

"What?" Alan snaps. He didn't mean to speak, but it's too late now, and so he ploughs forward. "What do I look?"

"I can't decide," Tron admits. He steps closer to Alan now, inclines his body more directly to face him. There's no one out here to overhear their private conversation, but Alan appreciates the discretion anyway as Tron drops his voice and continues, "At first I was going to say angry. But it's something else." Tron considers for a moment, obviously thinking it through, and then his eyes go wide so suddenly Alan feels his pulse jump even before Tron speaks.

"There is no reason for you to be jealous, Alan-One," Tron says.

Alan jerks back so suddenly that the railing digs into his back.

"I'm not jealous," he says. Of course it's a blatant lie. Tron clearly knows it, too, if the quiet understanding softening his features is anything to go by.

Alan has more protests to voice—more baseless, frantic denials—but that's the moment Sam returns. He appears out of nowhere, suddenly beside them with two green drinks in hand.

The easy smile on his face at least reassures Alan that he didn't overhear.

"Here," Sam says, handing one of the drinks to Alan. "You'll like this." Alan accepts the beverage but doesn't drink as Sam glances at Tron and says, "You sure you don't want anything?"

Tron shakes his head without taking his eyes off of Alan.

"Cheers, then," Sam says, eyes shifting to Alan as he raises his glass and waits expectantly.

Alan blinks at him a moment before his brain catches up.

"Cheers," he says helplessly, and clinks his glass to Sam's.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The tour takes several hours more, and by the end Sam still hasn't shown him everything there is to see.

The beacon on the horizon has gone dark. Alan's not sure when that happened. But Sam shrugs, completely unconcerned.

"I warned Quorra we might stay the night," Sam says. "She'll only come up to the lab if I'm late checking in. I've got the Beacon set to reactivate on a set timer."

They're standing indoors again now—in a bright, streamlined living room of what Alan belatedly realizes must be Sam's apartment. The floor is lit in a checkered pattern, alternating dark and light tiles, and the walls glow at even intervals, corners rounded and streamlined. A single enormous window covers one wall, offering a clear view of untamed Gridspace in the distance, all ragged edges and a sky filled with dark clouds and rough lightning.

"I'll be right back," Sam says, setting a hand on Alan's arm to call his attention back. "I've got a guest room to code up. You two can entertain yourselves for a few minutes, can't you?"

"Sure," Alan says. He tries not to feel apprehensive. He can feel Tron's eyes on him, the way he's felt Tron's eyes on him for the past three hours—like there's some stubborn, secret purpose waiting in the wings.

Sam disappears up a narrow spiral staircase that Alan's sure wasn't in that corner a moment ago. Alan's tempted to explore in his absence—there are half a dozen doors and hallways leading in every direction, and curiosity gnaws at him.

But even if such explorations wouldn't constitute an invasion of privacy, Alan is all too aware of Tron's attention. He entertains a brief, vain hope that Tron will let their previous conversation rest.

Then Tron steps closer—close enough to drop his voice to a private murmur—and asks, "Do you want him?"

Alan flinches. Despite Tron's tone—cautious, gentle, reverent—the question feels like an accusation.

But he doesn't say no. He knows lying will accomplish nothing.

Whatever response Alan expects, the tentative smile that crosses Tron's face is completely out of left field. At best Tron should be looking at him with the wary distrust of a rival. At worst with pity.

When Tron speaks again, his voice is soft but intense.

"He'll show you to your room in a moment," Tron says. "He'll say goodnight and leave you to rest. When he goes, wait a short time and then return to this room as quietly as you can."

"Why?" Alan asks. He already feels a low tremble in his gut telling him this is a bad idea.

But there's a glint of mischief in Tron's eyes, and a piercing intensity in his gaze, and Alan knows he's going to agree even before Tron reaches out and squeezes his shoulder in a reassuring grip.

"Trust me," says Tron.

And God help him, but Alan does.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The guestroom is tasteful and spacious. The floor is all one color, unlit, as though Sam took pains to create a space Alan would find less disconcerting.

"I hope it's comfortable enough," Sam says, eyes tracing the newly created space. "I still haven't figured out why sleeping is even necessary on the Grid, but it's not just Users. It's programs, too."

Alan doesn't try to posit a rational explanation. He's got no delusions of being able to make sense of the implausible world Sam has shown him.

"Anyway," Sam says, shrugging—he abandoned his jacket somewhere since they arrived at the domicile, and his t-shirt clings tight to his shoulders with the gesture. "Get some sleep if you can. We'll check out Theta Sector in the morning. Tallest tower in the System."

"I look forward to it," Alan says. "Goodnight, Sam."

The door closes behind Sam, and Alan stares at the knob. The door mocks him, smooth and spotless and pure temptation, and Alan drops tiredly onto the foot of the bed. He reaches for his tie and loosens it with shaking fingers, pops the top couple buttons of his collar. He tries to steady his hands as he pulls the fabric of his tie free and tosses it aside. He sheds his dark jacket also, glowing cuffs and all, and wonders at the fact that in this cool space he still feels overheated.

He waits what feels like half an eternity—more like fifteen minutes if he's going to make an accurate guess—and he's still trying to talk himself out of going when he stands and crosses the room.

The doorknob is chilly beneath his hand, and the click as he opens the door is nearly silent.

He's never moved as quietly in his life as he finds himself moving now. Trepidation mutes his steps, even as anxious anticipation makes his pulse a chaotic racket in his ears. He doesn't know what he's doing. All he's got to go on is Tron's assurance, and he finds himself wondering why it's impossible not to trust the security program.

It might have to do with the fact that he's Alan's own creation. Or maybe it's because he's wearing Alan's face. It's hard to look into what are essentially his own eyes and find it in himself to mistrust.

He reaches the end of the dim corridor and the top of the spiral staircase, and he descends it with careful, silent steps.

The sight he finds in the living room below isn't unexpected, but it still nearly makes him gasp as he steps off the final step and onto the smooth floor beneath.

Sam's back is to him. Sam's naked back, as his shirt has been discarded over the arm of a nearby chair.

Even more distracting than Sam's naked back are Tron's hands, moving restlessly over Sam's body like he's trying to press ownership into every inch of Sam's skin. One hand finally settles low on Sam's spine. The other comes to rest at Sam's neck and tugs Sam closer—deepening the kiss Alan just walked in on.

Sam makes a soft sound, heated and low, and Alan feels his body react immediately. Christ, he needs to turn around and go back the way he came. He can't stand here getting hard at the sight of an intimate moment he shouldn't even be privy to.

But his feet are frozen to the spot, and his face heats when Sam's moan slides smoothly into a quiet, easy laugh as he finally breaks away from the kiss.

"Fuckin' insatiable," Sam mutters, amusement bright in his voice. He's turning in Tron's arms now, and Alan's window of escape is fast snapping closed as Sam says, "We should _really_ take this—"

Sam freezes the second he realizes they have an audience. He doesn't even think to shrug away from Tron's hands. He's too busy staring in wide-eyed shock.

"Fuck, _Alan_ ," Sam gasps on a horrified delay. His expression is wretched, and now Alan feels guilty as hell.

Sam is about to bolt. Alan can tell. Tron must be able to tell, too, because he moves faster. He steps close, presses right up to Sam's back, one arm wrapping firmly around Sam's waist. His other hand grabs Sam's wrist when Sam immediately tries to twist free, which leaves no room to maneuver.

Sam still struggles for a moment, though the effort is useless against Tron's unyielding strength. Sam's free hand grasps at Tron's arm over his stomach, trying without success to dislodge Tron's hold. Finally he caves to the inevitable and goes still.

Sam can't seem to take his eyes off of Alan. Alan can't look away either.

"Alan-One," Tron says, and the name is jarring in the hanging silence. Tron's voice is a low rumble that sounds like invitation, and he tucks his chin over Sam's shoulder—nuzzles his cheek along Sam's jaw and says, "Join us."

Some of the terror goes out of Sam's face at the invitation. Alan feels his own eyes widen as he sees skeptical, considering heat calm Sam's gaze.

It's the new look on Sam's face that finally propels Alan forward.

Words are a lost cause as he steps into Sam's space. The mess of emotions in his chest is too intense, and his throat feels tight with want. He touches Sam's face tentatively—reverently—trying to ask for permission without having to find his voice.

Sam doesn't flinch from the touch. His lips part on a quick breath, expression disbelieving, and Alan leans in and claims what he's been craving.

He means for the kiss to be gentle. A testing of the waters. But instead it's sharp and rough, instantly demanding as Sam gasps and opens further at Alan's urging. Sam cuts a moan off short as Alan presses close, a line of warmth and promise along Sam's front, and takes the kiss deeper.

Alan can't keep his hands from wandering now that he's here. Sam's skin is shameless heat beneath his palms, smooth and perfect, and Sam's tongue teases deliberately—inviting, coaxing—and Alan goes quickly from burgeoning erection to harder than he can stand, faster than he's experienced in years.

When Alan pulls back for air, Sam's eyes are barely focused. Alan's eyes dart down to where Tron is pressing kisses to Sam's throat—not just kisses, Alan realizes, but small, deliberate bites that are already darkening to bruises. Alan's stomach tightens sharply with desire, and he leans down, presses a mirroring kiss to the other side of Sam's neck, just beneath his ear. When Sam gasps and drops his head back—arching his neck and baring his throat beautifully in the process—Alan takes the sensitive flesh in his teeth and sucks a mirroring bruise into the skin.

Sam groans, low and helpless, and Alan feels Tron's arm shift between them, still restraining Sam with determined force.

This time when Alan draws back, he finds Tron watching him.

"Remove his pants," Tron says, voice heavy with unflinching command. It occurs to Alan just how surreal it is to be taking orders from a computer program he wrote and designed himself—but as strange realities go at the moment, that's not even a blip on the radar. Of course he intends to comply.

Taking his hands off of Sam is difficult, but Alan manages to step back. Sam's eyes struggle to focus on him, and Sam's expression twists into something that might be a smirk if he didn't look so winded.

"You should lose that shirt while you're at it," Sam says. Alan recognizes the cheeky tone Sam is aiming for, but the words come out too breathy to sound anything but desperate.

Alan's own mouth twists into a smile, and he drops to his knees.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

There's no reason for Tron to continue restraining Sam as Alan tosses the last of Sam's clothing aside and rises to his feet. But Tron doesn't loosen his hold, and something about the unnecessary restraint sends an eager thrill along Alan's spine. He can see Sam's wrist twisting in Tron's grip, testing and rebellious but obviously with no intent towards escape.

When Alan finally attacks the buttons of his own shirt, Sam strains harder—uncoordinated movements, as though he wants to get closer and doesn't even realize he's doing it. Tron's grip tightens, determined and unrelenting, and Alan drops his shirt carelessly behind him.

Somehow Alan manages to tear his gaze from Sam and turn his attention to Tron, and he startles at the look he finds on the program's face.

Tron is _smiling_ , one corner of his mouth tugging upwards in an expression that looks downright mischievous.

Then Tron moves without warning, dropping towards the floor and jerking Sam down with him. Sam gasps, eyes widening at the unexpected jolt as his legs give out beneath him and he lands hard on his knees.

On his _knees_.

Alan's breath lodges raggedly in his chest at the sight.

Tron slides right back into place along Sam's back, maneuvering with impressive—maybe even impossible—speed and pinning both of Sam's arms behind him. He's doing it one-handed as far as Alan can tell. Christ, that would be unsettling if it weren't putting such distracting images in Alan's head.

Tron's unoccupied arm drapes possessively over Sam's chest as he kneels, close and intimate, behind Sam. Alan looks down at them—at Tron blanketed possessively along Sam's back, at Sam breathing hard and staring up at Alan with wide, wild eyes—and he can't quite believe this is going where it seems to be going.

"Do it," Tron says. The words are clearly meant for Alan's ears, but he sees the shiver they elicit in Sam. "He'll let you. He wants you to."

Alan steps forward, pulse rushing white-hot and intense beneath his skin. He's already fumbling with his belt buckle. His zipper comes open with an eerie quiet, and the air of the room is cool on his cock. Alan reaches for Sam with one hand, carding his fingers through Sam's hair before letting his touch drift lower—cupping Sam's chin and pressing his thumb meaningfully against Sam's lower lip.

Sam's mouth opens obediently, and Alan presses his thumb inside. He watches rapt as Sam's lips close around him. Sam's cheeks hollow as he sucks on the offered digit, and Alan can't look away.

"How much can he take?" Alan hears himself ask. The question feels gruff and unsteady. It doesn't sound like him.

"All of it," Tron answers, eyes dropping meaningfully to Alan's most pressing concern. Then Tron's eyes rise again, meeting Alan's gaze, and Alan finds himself floored all over again by the heated mischief lighting the program's eyes.

Tron's circuits are glowing brighter, Alan realizes. Or maybe Alan's just perceiving the world a little too intensely right now. It's hard to tell, especially when Alan's brain is busy tripping over the explicit go-ahead Tron just gave him.

Sam is watching him, expression wide and trusting and expectant. Sam's hard cock curves against his thigh. Alan's own erection is starting to feel desperate and insistent, and he pulls his thumb from Sam's mouth. He knows his purpose is clear.

"Open," he says anyway, trailing his spit-slick thumb over the inviting swell of Sam's lower lip.

Sam instantly complies, and Alan takes that last, irrevocable step forward and guides himself into Sam's mouth. He gasps aloud at the wet, mind-crashing heat sliding along his cock. His hand slips to the back of Sam's head—tightens in his hair—and Sam makes a low, eager sound in his throat as Alan's hips stutter forward and drive his cock further into Sam's mouth.

Christ, this is almost too much. Alan braces his other hand on Sam's shoulder, even as he curves his grip around the base of Sam's skull and holds tighter still. It would be so easy to come apart right here—he's so close he's not even sure how he's keeping it together.

But Alan knows damn well it can pay to be stubborn, and he holds himself back from the edge by force of will.

"Give him more," Tron interjects, and nearly succeeds in undermining Alan's efforts.

" _Fuck_ ," Alan breathes, the expletive unfamiliar on his tongue. 'All of it,' Tron said before. Alan doesn't let himself over-think. He thrusts forward in a single, smooth motion and groans when Sam simply opens his throat and swallows.

Sam still can't move in Tron's hold—can't do anything but relax his jaw and take it as Alan holds him in place and thrusts deeper. Alan doesn't stop until he feels the press of Sam's nose against his belly, the ripple of sensation that comes from Sam's throat working around his cock, struggling to accommodate the length and girth.

Alan shifts, braces himself to draw back, but Tron's voice stops him short.

"Don't," Tron says. "Stay there."

"Jesus," Alan breathes. Holding still this way might be the hardest thing he's ever done.

But he does it. He waits. He fights back the threatening crest of his orgasm—knows damn well it's not yet time—and his breath turns shocky, dragging harshly in with the minutest movements of Sam's mouth and throat.

Sam doesn't try to pull away—ineffectual though any such effort would be, between Tron restraining his body and Alan's hand still forceful in his hair—but he begins to tremble, softly at first, then harder as the seconds drag further and further out.

Alan doesn't even realize what he's waiting for until finally Tron says, "Now."

When Alan draws back, he doesn't pull all the way out. Somehow, with nothing more than a glance at Tron, he knows that's not what he should do. But he pulls far enough back that barely more than the head of his cock is filling Sam's mouth, and Sam's eyes—closed a moment before—open and find Alan, lock onto him with a burning intensity as Sam takes the opportunity to breathe.

"Again," Tron murmurs, and Alan thrusts forward.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Tron stops him before he can come. Alan's not sure how the program knows, but Tron's interruption is perfect, gives Alan just enough time to hold himself back.

"We should take this elsewhere," Tron says. "The bedroom will be more comfortable."

Alan almost asks 'More comfortable for what?' He can't be blamed if his brain cells are having trouble focusing on anything but the immediate moment—anything but _Sam_ —and it takes him an extra stretch of seconds to catch up and realize Tron's purpose.

It takes him until they've relocated to the bedroom—to Tron and Sam's bed, Alan realizes in a daze—and by then Alan's pants have been discarded god only knows where, and Tron's bodysuit and armor have dissolved to glowing pixels beneath Sam's determined touch, and there's nothing but skin and heat and desperate, mounting tension.

They lay Sam along the bed, guiding by turns, and Tron crouches beside Sam's shoulders—pins his wrists to the mattress as he gives Alan a look that says, ' _Go ahead. Do what you want to do_.'

Tron's bare skin is lit with precise, intricate lines of power—patterned like circuitry, bright and sharp—and the light emanating from his body pulses stronger and stronger with each passing moment. The room is fast growing hazy with light, and Alan kneels above Sam, head spinning at the way Sam parts his legs to make space for him—at the way Sam shifts and arches his back as Alan settles between his thighs.

His dick is impatient, but Alan still pauses there, blinking and breathless.

"Don't we need—?"

"Not here," Sam cuts him off in a heated rush. "The Grid follows its own rules, it's not—Fuck, Alan, if you don't touch me soon I might accidentally derez the sector or something."

It's the first coherent thought he's expressed in what seems like an eternity.

Alan still leans over Sam and presses his fingers to Sam's lips—watches rapt as Sam takes them into his mouth and sucks them slick. Grid rules or not, he plans on giving Sam _something_ , and as he finally draws his hand back and slips it lower, between Sam's legs, he doesn't shrink from the intensity Sam's gaze holding his.

Sam struggles against Tron's restraint when Alan's fingers slide into him. He breathes a rough gasp, eyes fluttering shut, and his legs fall wider. His body _does_ feel different than Alan expects—easier, smoother, though he still meets the resistance of muscle as he begins to work Sam open.

Sam groans, wrists twisting fruitlessly in Tron's hands, and sooner than he means to Alan pulls his fingers from Sam's body and takes himself in hand.

"Look at me," he orders. The sound of his own voice surprises him, ragged and full of gravel. Sam instantly complies, and Alan stares into Sam's lust-wide eyes as the head of his cock nudges at Sam's entrance and he finally presses inside.

Sam's whole body arches up against Alan's as Alan fills him in a single impatient thrust. Gasps and curses escape Sam's mouth, and his eyes lose focus. His knees press in against Alan's sides. His body trembles, tight around Alan's length, and god, Alan has to close his eyes and force his breathing steady—the alternative is to come right here, before he's even gotten started.

When he reopens his eyes, he sees Sam straining hard against Tron's hold, futile resistance.

Alan knows he should give Sam time to adjust, but he's already moving, hips pulling back and thrusting forward in a rhythm that's hard and deep and nothing resembling gentle.

Sam doesn't seem to mind—not if the way he rolls his hips to meet every thrust is any indication. His legs slide higher—wrap around Alan's waist—and Alan shifts, changes the angle, and thrusts deeper still. He drops forward, elbow pressed to the bed and one arm bracing his weight, and he claims Sam's mouth in a possessive kiss. Sam parts his lips, lets Alan in, even as Alan fucks him faster, Sam's body jostling with every thrust.

Then Tron lets go—he _must_ let go—because suddenly Sam's hands are all over Alan. Clinging, exploring, mapping the length of Alan's back, sliding through his hair. Sam's touch is desperate—like waiting for this has been torture and now that he's free he wants everything at once.

" _Alan_ ," Sam breathes against his throat, and Alan closes his eyes and moans.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's Tron that changes the game one last time. Not with words—Tron is silent as his hands guide Alan and Sam to a new position, and Alan finds himself kneeling, sitting back on his heels, with Sam astride his lap—Sam pressing uncoordinated kisses to Alan's throat and chest as he rides Alan's cock.

Then Tron moves in along Sam's back, an intimate line of intent, and Sam goes still.

Alan bites back a groan—his hands on Sam's hips tighten their hold, fingers digging roughly into Sam's skin .

Tron leans in and presses a kiss to the side of Sam's neck, circuits flashing brighter as he molds himself along Sam's spine. Sam twists against Alan's chest, head falling back as he turns as far as he can pinned between their bodies like this—far enough to give Tron access to his mouth, which Tron claims in a relentless kiss.

Alan's cock twitches inside Sam, and his eyes go wide at the sight of Sam's jaw dropping for the kiss—the sight of Tron's mouth opening, Tron's tongue an unmistakable glimpse as he presses the advantage and deepens the kiss.

It's messy. It's gorgeous. It's also surreal, Alan thinks, to watch a face so similar to his own do these things to Sam while Alan himself is still buried in Sam's body.

Then the kiss ends, and Tron whispers, "Do you want more?" The words come out low and harsh, and Alan thinks the brightness of Tron's circuits must mean he's every bit as close as Alan finds himself.

"Yes," Sam breathes. " _Fuck_ yes."

The offer and response don't immediately click into place in Alan's head. He doesn't connect the dots until he feels something pressing beside his cock—pressing at the spot Sam's body is straining around him—but it hits him fast enough when Tron works a first finger into Sam alongside Alan.

Sam throws his head back against Tron's shoulder and cries out at the added intrusion, but even muddled as Alan's own thoughts are, he can tell the sound is thick with pleasure. Sam's eyes are open, glazed with need, and after only the barest moment, Tron introduces a second finger.

It doesn't take him long to work up to three, though the angle must be awkward as hell, and then Tron's fingers disappear entirely, and this time Alan knows what comes next.

It doesn't seem possible. Sam is still so tight around him, such overwhelming heat, but there's the nudge of Tron's cock, and Sam's body gives way, grudgingly accommodating as Tron presses in.

Sam's whole body bucks forward—involuntarily, Alan thinks, because an instant later Sam goes so still. Alan can feel the trembling strain in Sam's body—he feels the way Sam clutches at his arms, feels Sam's breath ghosting hot and irregular over Alan's chest. Tron's hands ghost over Sam's body, gentle now, even as he fills Sam with the unrelenting length of his cock. The added friction along his length makes it damn hard for Alan to keep it together, and he swallows back a curse when Tron finally slots all the way in.

" _Oh god_ ," Sam gasps. There's breathless wonder in his voice.

"Are you all right?" Alan asks. Because he needs to be sure. He never wants to hurt Sam—especially not like this.

"Yes," Sam answers instantly, and rocks up and down once as though to prove it. Alan swears out loud this time. Tron groans against Sam's throat. None of them is going to last long at this rate.

It's Tron that moves now, finds a careful rhythm in Alan's stead. He moves gently—cautious in a way that's at once maddening and magnificent. He seems intuitively aware of Sam's limits, but even more, he seems capable of restraining himself in a way that Alan is starting to doubt he'd manage if it were up to him to set their pace.

Sam is the first to come. His eyes brighten with blue light—heat and power pour from him in a rush—and Alan watches with wide eyes as the light of Sam's orgasm seems to absorb directly into the lines of circuitry already glowing so brightly along Tron's skin. Then _Tron_ is shaking harder, shouting his own orgasm on a strengthening surge of power and light. Alan's pulse rockets through him, his skin buzzes with unmuted energy, and it would be so easy to hitch a ride on that wave and let his own climax carry him away.

But he's not ready to end this yet. He's not ready to stop touching Sam. He holds back by some improbable force of willpower, and waits for Sam and Tron to come back down.

Tron pulls out of Sam's body with careful reverence once he's spent, slipping to the side and leaving Alan room to maneuver. Sam collapses bonelessly against Alan's chest, sleepy lethargy already dragging him down.

Alan shifts, careful and more coordinated than he expects to manage. He doesn't pull out very far as he lays Sam back against the pillows—as he repositions Sam along the bed and lets his weight press Sam into the mattress—as his hands grasp at Sam's hips and Alan thrusts in deep.

Once. Twice. A dozen times, and now Sam is reviving, getting his hands on Alan, urging him on.

In a disconnected corner of his mind, Alan feels Tron's eyes on him. His skin tingles at the fascinated glint of the security program's attention. But Alan can't spare any focus when he's so close, when Sam is so warm and alive beneath him, urging Alan down for a kiss and then arching his neck, baring his throat so Alan can press a hard, bruising kiss into the skin as he finally comes.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The bed is more than large enough to accommodate all three of them.

Drowsy contentment pervades Alan's limbs, and the mattress is firm but accommodating beneath his back. He thinks he could fall asleep easily, exhausted and spent as he is, but for the distracting weight of _Sam_ draped half across his chest—the soft, warm rhythm of Sam's breath on his skin, Sam's face nuzzled close beneath his jaw.

Alan wouldn't have pegged Sam for a snuggler. He traces lazy patterns along Sam's side and thinks he could very quickly get used to this.

Sam hums a contented sound and burrows closer. His hand rests idly over Alan's stomach. His hair tickles Alan's ear.

It takes an extra moment for Alan to realize Tron is still sitting back. Watching him—watching _them_ —with wide, bright eyes.

"Thank you," Alan hears himself murmur softly. Sam barely stirs in his arms. Tron's expression drifts into a quiet smile, and he nods.

Tron moves before Alan can drift off to sleep. He shifts along the bed, lies down and presses easily, intimately along Sam's back—close enough to press lazy kisses to the back of Sam's neck. Sam murmurs something unintelligible, and Tron curls in against him, touching him with roaming hands. Tron trails his fingers along the length of Sam's arm, covers Sam's hand where it rests on Alan's stomach.

Sam must not be as out of it as Alan thought, because when Tron caresses his wrist, Sam splays his fingers so that Tron can intertwine their hands.

Tron's fingers are cool against Alan's stomach. Sam's are warm. The contrast leaves him feeling lightheaded.

Or maybe that's just exhaustion, finally claiming him, as the stark contrasts of the room fade slowly around the edges.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The Beacon lights right on schedule. Tron escorts them to the portal.

He kisses Sam goodbye with an open forcefulness, and Sam melts right into the wordless command. Then Tron turns to Alan, and there's a considering look in his eyes.

"I'm glad you could visit us, Alan-One," says Tron. "I hope you'll return to the Grid often."

Alan can tell the invitation is genuine. He's not sure why it surprises him.

"I'm sure I will," Alan says.

Tron regards him silently for another moment, then steps suddenly forward. His mouth on Alan's is as cool as his fingers. His eyes don't close. Alan's own eyes are wide with surprise, but he parts his lips for Tron's tongue, and realizes this isn't unpleasant.

Surreal, yes. Unpleasant, no. Tron is an excellent kisser.

When Tron pulls back, Alan blinks at him in confusion for a moment. He's not sure if he's supposed to say something here. He's not sure how he's supposed to respond to having his doppelganger's tongue in his mouth.

Then he realizes Sam is staring, and he turns—finds Sam standing there with jaw dropped, eyes wide, face flushed in a way that makes Alan realize who the kiss was actually meant for.

Then he looks back at Tron. He expects to find Tron staring at Sam, but Tron is still looking at him. Tron's expression is tightly focused, and intent sparks brightly behind his eyes.

"Take care of him," Tron says softly. "And return soon."

"I will," Alan promises.

He steps with Sam into the blinding column of light.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The workspace is dark when they materialize—just like it was when they left. Alan tries to calculate the passage of Grid time into real world minutes in his head, and though he has no idea how accurate his guess, comes out around twenty extra minutes on this side of the screen.

Amazing. Even his glasses are back.

Sam is still sitting in his desk chair, Alan immediately behind him, in positions that mirror exactly where they were when the laser first activated to send them into the computer. Alan's hand is resting on Sam's arm in a way that felt casual enough before, but now echoes with meanings he's not sure how to process.

The desk is sturdy and broad, heavy wood. The computer monitor that sits on top of it is expansive. Alan knows the door behind them is locked, and besides the two of them, only Quorra has the key.

Neither Alan nor Sam moves for a long time. Alan's not sure what thoughts are going through Sam's head at the moment, but he knows his own thoughts are clouded with anxiety bordering on terror. Everything could be different on this side of the screen. Everything feels more real now, and the things that happened on the Grid come to him through an unwelcome detachment—as though even his subconscious mind is scared to presume anything now that they're out of the Grid.

Sam taps a sequence of commands on the keyboard, and the computer screen winks dark. Standby mode. Alan can't tell for sure, but he thinks Sam's hands might be shaking.

When Sam stands, Alan means to back off. If ever there was a time they both needed some space to think, this is it. But his legs ignore his commands, and his hand on Sam's arm stays put, and now he's standing far too close.

Sam doesn't try to shrug him off or step away though. Alan hopes that's a good sign.

A moment passes. Another. Sam doesn't turn around, and Alan realizes that the first move is his. Wherever they go from here, it's going to be on him to start them on that path, and his fingers tighten on Sam's arm.

He urges Sam to turn, and Sam follows the wordless directive. He leans back against the sturdy edge of the desk, and stares down and to the side—eyes locked stubbornly on a corner of the floor instead of finding Alan. A nervous tick signals the clenching of his jaw. Alan wishes like hell he could tell what Sam is thinking right now.

He watches Sam in profile for a moment. From here he has an unimpeded view of the smooth line of Sam's throat, where the bruises Alan and Tron left marking his skin have clearly not followed them into the real world. Alan's pulse races with a maddening mix of uncertainty and desire to mark Sam up so it counts.

He settles for holding his ground. He's invading Sam's space right now, standing so much nearer than he should, but he can't bring himself to back off.

He's not sure what to say, and he startles when Sam speaks first.

"Are you mad?"

It's not any of the questions Alan was expecting.

"Mad?" Alan gapes.

Sam flinches instead of looking at him, guilty and caught-out, and Alan tries to assemble the pieces of information he has into some coherent whole. He's got no idea what he might have to be mad at Sam for. Christ, even if he _were_ upset about what happened on the Grid—which he's not, god, he can't be—Sam didn't deliberately seduce him. Sam wasn't even the catalyst. That was all on Tron, which—

Oh. Right. Tron. There's the missing piece of the puzzle.

Alan finally lets go of Sam's arm and raises his hand to Sam's face. He curls his fingers beneath Sam's chin and forces him to look Alan in the eye.

"You mean am I mad about you and Tron," Alan guesses aloud.

Sam's silence and wide eyes are confirmation enough.

"How did it happen?" Alan asks.

Sam's eyes cut away guiltily, but Alan tightens his grip. He keeps Sam's head tilted back, keeps his own gaze locked unflinching on Sam's face, and Sam has no choice but to look at him when he answers.

"It wasn't anything serious at first," Sam admits. His voice is thick with confession. "It was just distracting as hell, you know? The fact that he looked…" Sam trails off, then. Alan reads embarrassment in his silence alongside the guilt, and it takes him an extra moment to follow the implications of Sam's words to their natural conclusion.

"He looked like me," Alan realizes, blinking and stunned. "You fucked him because he looked like _me_." Sam's eyes flash bright in a way that tells Alan he's hit the bull's-eye, and Alan's mouth goes dry.

"It's more than that now," Sam admits, voice going quiet. "It's… I think I'm in love with him."

"Jesus Christ, Sam."

Alan's brain can't quite wrap around that. He's not sure he wants it to, and for a long moment the room is heavy with silence.

Then a different look crosses Sam's face, curiosity and determination in equal parts, and Sam says, "How long have you wanted to do that to me, Alan?"

Alan's first instinct is to avoid the question entirely. His second instinct is to dissemble. But Sam's eyes are piercing, and Alan can't bring himself to do either of those things. Sam has already confessed so much. How can Alan give him anything but the truth in exchange?

"Years," Alan finally admits. He feels his face heat with the admission.

He's not sure when it started, but Alan remembers the night of Sam's twenty-first birthday. He remembers Sam coming over to his house, bottle of tequila in his hands and celebration in his smile. He thinks that might have been the first time he realized just how beautiful this boy is.

Sam just watches him with wide eyes now, as though he's expecting more, and Alan says, "What about you?"

Sam shakes his head.

"You probably don't want to know."

And Christ, if it's going to put that look on Sam's face, Alan's pretty sure he _doesn't_ want to know. Sheepish embarrassment flashes behind Sam's eyes, and Alan doubts he could handle the thought of a teenaged Sam harboring some secret adolescent crush on him.

If Alan weren't still touching Sam—weren't still holding his chin in this commanding tilt—he might not notice the way Sam is suddenly shaking. It's barely discernible, an understated trembling as Sam's pupils dilate and his lips part on a soft inhale.

"Alan, can we—?"

Alan kisses Sam then, because that's all he needs to hear.

He's surprised by the desperation that hits him the second Sam's lips part beneath his. Suddenly he can't get close enough, and he presses Sam back against the edge of the desk, takes the kiss deep as Sam wraps his arms around Alan's neck and kisses him right back.

Alan's head spins sharply, and he can't think, can't process anything beyond the fact that Sam's tongue is in his mouth and Sam tastes different here—he tastes _better_ , somehow—and if the world ended right this second, Alan probably wouldn't notice.

Eventually he manages to pull back. It's two parts need for oxygen, one part knowledge that if he doesn't stop now he's going to shove Sam down on this desk and do something inappropriate—a bad idea if Quorra's due to check in as soon as Alan suspects she is.

Besides. He knows damn well they're not done talking.

"What about Tron?" Alan asks finally, reluctantly. "What's he going to make of all this?"

"Tron will be fine," Sam says. He sounds breathless but thoughtful. "He won't…" Sam laughs, quiet and sheepish. "He won't consider it cheating. Not if it's with you. I mean, assuming…" Sam pauses and locks Alan with a considering look. "You're okay with this, right? The fact that I'm with him?" There's uncertainty in Sam's eyes. He's still got his arms around Alan, but now he backs off a little—he rests his hands on Alan's chest instead, and waits with new tension in his shoulders.

"If I weren't, would that make a difference?" Alan asks.

"I don't know," Sam whispers. Uncertainty transforms to fear. Not fear of _him_ , Alan can tell, but fear that this won't work after all. That they can't have this without hurting each other.

But Alan forces himself to think it through. He forces himself to consider all the angles—to consider _Tron_ , and Sam's feelings for the security program—Sam's feelings for both of them, and how inextricably tangled they are.

And he realizes, with a start, that he doesn't mind.

He can't share Sam. But somehow, with Tron, it doesn't feel like sharing. It's not just the fact that Tron wears his face. It's the program's reverence, his openness—it's the fact that Alan knows Sam will never try to choose between them. He never has to worry about losing Sam to someone else.

Besides, Tron had this first. If he hadn't said anything—if he hadn't invited Alan along for the ride—Alan would never have realized he could have this. He can't very well begrudge the program's claim on Sam now.

"I'm fine," Alan finally says.

Relief flashes instantly in Sam's eyes.

"But no one else, Sam," Alan warns him—unnecessarily, and he knows it. "Tron is different. I'm not sharing you with anyone else." Alan feels his eyes darken with dangerous intensity. Sam's eyes go wide at the sight.

"You know I wouldn't," Sam says. He almost sounds hurt.

"I know," Alan soothes. He kisses the unsettled look from Sam's face and then adds, "I trust you, Sam."

"You'd better," Sam murmurs, momentarily placated. "This is going to be complicated."

"Yes," Alan concedes.

They watch each other for a long moment. Gauging. Waiting. The important decisions are made, they know they're going to make this work, but it still leaves the very important question of: now what?

Finally Sam smiles, uncertainty melting from his expression and eyes lighting with mischief.

"We should get out of here," he says, conspiratorial and distracting. His hand trails in an idle caress over Alan's chest. "Find somewhere a little more private to negotiate terms."

"I was under the impression that the surrender was without conditions," Alan says, eyebrows rising high.

"Who said anything about surrender?" Sam says. A deliberate challenge sparks in his eyes, and Alan can already feel his own pulse beating more rapidly beneath his skin. The need to call Sam's bluff is intoxicating. He already knows that given the right command, Sam will yield exactly the way Alan wants him to.

"Let's go," Alan says, pushing away from Sam with reluctance. "My place is a hell of a lot closer than yours."

"Lay on, Macduff," Sam smirks, and follows him towards the door.


End file.
